Fables: Unlocked
by Eilam Wordsmith
Summary: A collection of short stories from the first, second and third games. These are the stories of the minor characters, the shadows of the Hero's light. They are family, friends, ancestors, descendents. They are unknown, untold, and finally unlocked.
1. Unlocked

**Author's Note:** I was a bit surprised at how few stories there were with the Hero's parents. And I had this little idea...

* * *

Oakvale was quiet in the pre-dawn light. Even the tavern regulars had stumbled home or slumped onto the tables by now. No one heard the light steps on the frosty ground, or the swish of a cloak through the air.

No one knew that a killer had come to Oakvale.

The hooded figure swept through the town, past the tavern and up the hill, a red shadow in the chilled and misty air. If someone had watched, they might have seen dark hair underneath the cowl. They might have glimpsed the glint of a sword, or a hint of the leather armor. But no one saw. The figure continued undisturbed to its goal: the last house on the road.

Most families locked their doors at night, even in Oakvale. Especially in Oakvale. Bandits roamed closely, and a slim bar in the door was a better defense than nothing at all. Strange, then, that the last house should be unlocked. The figure glared at the open door, then slipped inside the house, leaving a barely audible click as the door shut.

A fire burned low in the grate, giving off just enough light to see the small family asleep in their beds. Two children, a boy and a girl, snored lightly; the boy lay sprawled across his mattress. The figure watched them for a moment in the flickering light.

And then the figure turned away, towards the other bed, the parent's bed. And then it went to work, unbuckling and tugging at the sword on its back, completely silent.

--

Brom dreamed. He dreamed of his daughter, blind and sad, hopeless in the hands of bandits. He dreamed of his son, training in the Guild of Heroes, roaming Darkwood, fighting Balverines, standing in the Arena, the champion.

He dreamed of his wife, broken and bleeding, the way he had first found her so many years ago. She reached out to him, and a fire began to consume her. _Brom_, she called. _Brom._

"Brom."

The whisper in his ear pulled him from dreams and into his wife's arms. Her hands were cold from the mist outside, and she still smelled of the road and traveling.

"You just get back, then?" He whispered. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he saw her sword and bow resting by the fire, the red cloak folded neatly on top.

"I told you to lock the door, dear." Scarlet admonished.

Brom turned to face her, his arms pulling her closer. "Luv," he said, "when you leave, that door is always unlocked.",

--

Scarlet listened to her husband sleep, and could just hear the soft dream-sighs of her children. She let out a sigh of her own, and rolled over. Despite the Balverine blood on her cloak, and the human blood on her clothes, she knew she would rest well. It had been a long journey home from the Arena, but one well worth it. Her family would eat. Her children would grow.

And no matter how many she had killed, bandit or Balverine, the door would always be unlocked.

* * *

**Final Note:** Aw, Brom may be ugly as sin, but he's super sweet. So yes, this is quite short, just a glimpse of how nice things were before the whole Destruction-of-Their-Lives-and-Homes. All belongs to Peter Molyneux, who is god.


	2. Blood Red

**Author's Note:** The first "Unlocked" was just an idea, a little drabble between writing exercises. I'd always felt a sort of sadness after buying the old home in Oakvale, and I'd looked around, wondering. Somehow this generated into a story.

"Unlocked" was received fairly well. I appreciate the reviews from almostinsane and Gray Maze; you were both very kind and I loved hearing from you. And another reviewer, The Insanity, thought I should do more of these. Only one problem. I was out of ideas.

The Fable 2 Pub Games cleared that up, and this next story is the second result of many hours of Keystone and Fortune's Tower. (I never win at Spinnerbox. It is natty.)

And so, here we go again, to the unlocked stories of Fable...

* * *

Rosie heard the horns sound, and the creak of the closing gates. She opened her eyes, and saw only the darkness of her cloak, felt only the pattering of the rain on her cheek. She lifted her head from the grave soil and looked upon her father's tombstone.

Luke

Son of Brian and Jane

Husband of the late Rosemary

Father of Rose

Taken by Balverines

She'd sold the house for those final words. Sold their livestock, their furniture, their spare potions, even her mother's ring. Everything but the silver axe that lay beside her, bigger than she was.

The horns sounded again, and this time she heard the screams of villagers of Witchwood, and the growls of Balverines as they ripped her neighbors apart.

Her father was only a woodcutter, but he'd always insisted that his only child was something special. He had taught her to defend herself, swinging a child's axe against the trees and stones around their home, until she began to get older and stronger.

"You've always been a fighter, my Rosie," he'd said. "But I hope one day you'll do more than that."

He hadn't said anything in the healer's hut, those last moments of his life. His hand had gripped hers, very hard, until he slowly weakened, and let go. She had tried to grab him 

again, tried to bring him back, but there was nothing to hold on to.

Without her realizing, her hand had clenched, gripping the axe's handle. She placed her other hand on it, and lifted the weapon into the air. If it was heavier than most grown men could lift, she didn't feel it. A power unlocked, ran through her, a power red with hate and vengeance.

_I can hold on to this. And if I can hold it, I can wield it. And if I wield it, I can kill death. I can hold on to my life._

She felt the beast behind her, stalking her. It thought her defenseless. It thought her a child, easy prey and tender meat.

There was a wet, sliding sound as it pushed off of the ground, launching itself at her.

The rain seemed to fall very slowly.

She turned, letting the weight of the axe tug her full circle, the edge sinking into dark fur. Yellow fangs snapped, inches from her nose. Its mouth stank of rotten flesh. Rosie did not blink.

Finishing her arc, she swung her cloak-covered back to the beast, just in time to catch the spray of blood as its head fell, cleanly severed.

One down.

After, she could remember nothing but the sea of red and the howls of pain. Only when a flash of white entered her vision did memory and consciousness return.

A white Balverine stood before her, larger than its fellows and terrifying in appearance. The growls and posture seemed almost man-like, but Rosie could see nothing but a beast in its eyes.

The thing swiped at her, claws catching on her axe as she rolled out of the way. She felt it being pulled from her hands, and gripped harder, but it was not enough. The axe flew, 

smashing into one of the pines. Old branches were knocked loose, large and knotty ones, hard with age. One landed close to her hand.

She rolled again, her hand gripping the branch, fingers digging into the splintery wood. The Balverine leapt after her, slavering jaws opened wide. Rosie tried to stand, and it knocked her down. A clawed hand rose high for the kill.

The power surged again, swinging the wood up just as the claws came down. She caught it across the arm, and there was a snap. Howling, the beast fell backward, clutching its broken arm. She went for the legs next, so that it would not escape. Blow after blow, until it could not have crawled.

It almost cried like a man. The howls nearly deafened her.

And as it lay there, broken and bloody, she dropped the stick at last and went to retrieve her axe. It was the work of a moment to swing it up, silver gleaming like sharpened claws, and to let it fall. There was silence.

The villagers had gathered, watching the slaughter, unbelieving. A girl, just fifteen, small and skinny, stood over the corpse of a white Balverine, an axe bigger than she sunk deep into flesh and dirt. Blood dripped from the edges of her cloak, mingling in the rain. As she turned, her wet, dark hair clinging to her face, and her eyes hollow graves, the villages stepped back.

"It's done." She whispered. "Dead."

One of the women blinked, and then leaned forward, squinting. Then her eyes widened, and she gasped.

"Rosie? Oh, Rosie is that you? I almost didn't recognize you; I always looked for your brown...cloak..."

The girl, the killer, the fighter, the hero, looked down at herself.

"It's red now. Scarlet. A scarlet robe."

As she sank towards the mud, her mind faded away, until all she could her was her father's voice.

_You've always been a fighter, my Rosie. But I hope one day you'll do more than that._

_Father, I will. I promise._

_I'll be a Hero._


	3. Pub Games

**Author's Note:** This one was actually written before Blood Red, and inspired by both the pub games and my Scot/Irish heritage. I might very well use the Connellys in another "Unlocked" story, as they've really taken root in my head. I can't wait to have a family just like them in Fable 2.

Takes place in Fable 2, on a cold winter's night many years after Scarlet Robe...

* * *

Molly Connelly hated walking in Bowerstone after dark. The scurrying sounds of rats made her spine crawl, and the sneering looks from Arfur and his crew had her ducking her head, desperate not to meet their eyes. She shivered in the icy wind and walked carefully over the icy cobbles. But after another glance at the urchins, her head had slowly come up again, and her pace became purposeful.

"Always act like you've got someplace to be," her mother had always said. "People won't bother you if they think you're doing something important."

This had always proved to be true. No one stopped Molly, or attempted to stop her, tonight. But that might have had less to do with her confident stride and more to do with the pistol she wore in her belt. That had been another lesson from mother.

"Confidence don't mean a thing if you're just a stupid twat," she'd said. "Always come prepared."

The gun weighed her down, causing her hips to shift and sway as if she were already a young woman, and not just a ten-year-old girl. But she could shoot the thing, if anyone tried to hurt her. She might be blown back from the recoil, but Molly could be certain that at least she'd get a shot in. That was more than some poor girls had gotten.

She was quite close to her destination, but Molly did not slow until she had reached the door of the pub. Then she came to a full stop, breathing deep and slow. The lantern light from within spilled onto the snow-heavy street outside, the amber glow a living advertisement for the pleasures inside. Molly adjusted her skirt, which had been dragged toward her boots by the weight of the pistol. Then she breathed in once more, and went inside.

Her arrival was barely noticed, much to her relief. Only the barkeep saw her, and he gave a short wave before turning back to watch the sight that kept everyone else riveted.

A woman and a man sat at one of the tables. The man, quite obviously the dealer, was setting out the cards for a round of Fortune's Tower. The woman lounged in her chair, coat and hat draped behind her, money bag resting on the table. One finger played with the fabric of her loose white shirt, while her eyes narrowed at the cards. A dog rested by her feet, apparently asleep.

Her brow furrowed, and she tapped her forefinger to her mouth. Slowly, her shapely legs uncrossed and crossed back, booted heels coming to rest on the floor.

The crowd of men surrounding the table shifted; some of the men moved to hold their coats in front of their trousers. But none of them looked away from the table.

Molly edged closer, and saw the lay of the cards. The tower card was still in place, and double sixes had been laid beneath it. Now the dealer laid out a nine, one, and seven. Eighteen, payout of one hundred forty-four.

The woman frowned. "Deal." She said. Some of the men shook their heads, while others exchanged gold. Gambling on the gambler.

_Flip, flip, flip, flip._ The next row of cards went down; a two, two nines, and a Hero card. Molly watched the card's spell take effect for a moment, the cards curling in flame before the Hero canceled it out. Row total of twenty, payout one hundred sixty.

"Deal."

Groans from the men at this. What was she thinking?

Row of four eights and a six. Practically unheard of, with a payout of three hundred and four. The crowd began to get riled.

"Keep on!" One shouted. "Going this far, it might be a jackpot!"

Several others took up the call, and the dog under the table opened one eye, growling and the men. The woman appeared to ignore them. She glanced up once, and saw Molly. The two watched each other for a moment, the woman's eyes gentle. Then she smiled.

"Pay out."

Some shouted and threatened, but as the dealer revealed the next row, and the next, it became apparent that that had been just the right decision. The next two rows would have paid lower before being burned out entirely.

Molly pushed through the crowd, flinging herself into the woman's arms.

"Mam! Da says you've got to get home, he has to lock the door soon."

A man in a greasy apron guffawed. "Ha! And here I thought ye answered to no man, Scarlet Connelly!"

Scarlet grinned, her hand resting on the pistol belted to her hip. "I put my man through enough worry when I'm away. Anyone less would have kicked me out and locked the door behind me a long while ago."

Then, throwing on her blue coat and donning her brown hat, Scarlet led her daughter out of the pub, the silver flash of her rapier just visible beneath her coattails. The dog, Thorn, raced after them, slipping through the door before it closed. Tendrils of pipe smoke followed them out, gauzy wrappings that stood no chance against the fierce winter winds.

Molly held her mother's hand as they walked down the cobbled streets, Scarlet's warm, gloved hands a comfort to her cold ones. Thorn trotted ahead, nose up, sniffing the air of the city. A winter wind blew into their faces, blowing back their identical long brown hair. They leaned into the wind, and Scarlet gripped her daughter's hand tighter.

"You forgot your gloves." Scarlet said.

"And you forgot curfew," replied Molly, stumbling in a snow bank until her mother pulled her up.

"Fair enough on that score. But walking around the city at this time of night? Alone? What was your Da thinking?"

"He couldn't leave me and Luke and Peter alone, Mam. So I had to go."

Scarlet frowned. "It's not right to have a child running these streets alone."

"You did it."

"That's not my point!" Scarlet whirled, grabbing Molly by the shoulders and shaking her. "Even I had someone protecting me, Molly! And still..." The wind shrieked, a sound like a child falling, and Scarlet looked down for a moment. Molly thought she heard her sob. Thorn whined, liking her mother's hand.

"Molly...my darling. You and your da and your brothers are my world. I don't know what I'd do if somethind ever happened to any one of you. I do what I do to keep you safe. Right?"

Molly sniffled. "Yes, Mam."

"I'll get home early next time. Don't do this again."

"Yes, Mam."

Scarlet pulled her into a hug, then kissed her once on the forehead before they resumed their walk.

It was getting late. Her husband would be waiting by the door, baby Peter in his arms, pacing back and forth. Scarlet felt his pain every time she left, the same need to keep her safe that she felt for him. But instead he could only wait, leaving himself open to danger the longer the door was left unlocked. But still he waited, because it was all a hero's spouse could do.

And, if the way Molly held that pistol was any indication, soon Scarlet would be the one waiting. Waiting for the ones she loved to come home.


	4. The Vigil

**Author's Note:** This is a bit longer than my usual chapters. What can I say; NaNoWriMo inspired me. Thank you to those readers who reviewed the last chapter, and those who will review this one. I hope it's to your liking, now that the game is out.

This one centers around the character from the last chapter, Scarlet Connelly. More specifically, it's about her absence during the quest for the Hero of Will. Her daughter Molly is about four or five, meaning there's still a few years to go before the completion of the quest, and Scarlet's return.

* * *

Molly's finger traced the figure in the photograph, entranced. The girls who stood there, frozen in time, smiled at her, inviting her in. But it was the younger that held her undivided attention. While the older girl posed more seductively—hips swaying, leg extended—the smaller one held her fists by her head, the unmistakable pose of a hero. The photograph was grainy and held no color, but Molly knew that the younger girl had blue eyes, just like her own.

"This one's Mommy, right?" She asked, turning to look at her father, who held her in his lap.

"That's right. You'll get to meet her someday."

"When, Daddy?"

"Soon."

The girl turned back to the photograph, while her father watched her, stroking her hair from time to time. Liam could see the face of his wife in his daughter, who stared so intently at an innocent street urchin lost in time.

"Who is the other girl?" Molly did not look up from the picture when she spoke, as though afraid that it would disappear if she stopped looking at it.

Liam, broken from his trance, took a moment to reply. "Your mother's sister. Her name was Rose."

"Where is she?"

"She died. A long time ago."

"Oh."

Molly traced her mother's face again, trying to remember. The earliest memories that came to her, the only ones of her mother, were of laughter and singing. A flash of blue. A woman's voice, husky, as though rarely used. And the warmth.

"Daddy?" She asked, this time as though she did not really want the answer. "Is Mommy dead, too?"

This question brought only silence, and Liam's hands gripping the armchair. "Time for bed."

He stood, lifting his daughter into the air with him, and cradling her in his arms. Molly clutched the picture to her chest, snuggling against her father's shoulder. "I don't want to go to bed. It's too early."

"You have school in the morning."

The beds upstairs were neatly made, one for the adults, and two small child-sized ones. One of the children's beds had a light coating of dust; it had been bought for a purpose never fulfilled. But Molly's bed had an occupant waiting for her, a worn and much-loved teddy bear with a blue patch on its cheek. Once her father had set her on the mattress, Molly reached for the bear, enfolding it in the same embrace with the photograph.

"Daddy," she said, "tell me a story."

Liam pulled the sheets up to her shoulders, tucking them around her. "Once upon a time, there was a lady Hero and her dog, Thorn. The two of them were best friends, and they went on all sorts of adventures together. One of these adventures was when they went to Oakfield, to complete the Ceremony of the Golden Oak.

"The head monk was very worried, for the law stated that only two monks could visit the wellspring, to complete the ceremony. The first monk had to be the strongest in the order, though the second could be anyone. Well, the strongest monk was the head monk's very own daughter, and he didn't want anything to happen to her. So he chose the lady Hero to protect her in the wellspring cave.

"It was not easy. Getting the water meant that the strong monk had to carry a heavy jug, making her unable to defend herself. And Hollow Men lived in the cave, attacking the lady Hero and the monk at every step. But just when they had completed their mission, the strong monk learned that someone had kidnapped her father, the head monk. She took a hammer from one of the nearby statues and went to rescue him, the lady Hero and Thorn running after her.

"They were too late. The head monk died, though the strongest slew those that had taken her father. And in the moment her hammer struck, she knew that she was no longer a monk. She was a Hero herself, the Hero of Strength. She vowed to join the lady Hero in her cause, and together they would stop the evil that roamed the land."

"Auntie Hammer," Molly murmured. Her eyes were already closed, and her grip on the teddy bear slack. But the photograph remained tight in her hand.

Liam watched until his daughter's breathing deepened, signaling the onset of dreams. Then he stood and crept back downstairs, resuming his seat in the armchair.

He watched the door, wondering if tonight would be the night he bolted it, keeping out the predators and prowlers of the night. But if he did that, the beings of light, the ones that fought the darkness, would be locked out, too.

_Time to tell myself a story,_ he thought.

_Once there was a man, a tattooist, who roamed the land, searching for adventure with his pots of ink. He traced pictures on skin, leaving marks and paths that could not be removed, a tapestry of life, where all decisions are final. This tattooist was talented, and often invited to the big cities and small towns of the country. But he also stopped by the Gypsy Camp outside Bowerstone, when he had the chance. _

_So it was, one summer's day, when the bees thrummed low in the air, living avatars of the heat, the tattooist visited the gypsies, and met a woman. She dressed like a gypsy herself, though it was plain that she was not one of them. Their eyes met as she danced next to another woman, spinning around and around, though her eyes remained fixed on him. He had stared back until a customer drew his attention away. When he looked again, she had disappeared._

_That night at his campfire, he was alone but for the crackle of the flames and the murmuring voices of the camp below. Out of the dark twilight stepped the woman he had seen. A dog padded beside her, but halted at the edge of the firelight, where it lay down and remained the rest of the night. The woman sat beside the tattooist, stretching one leg in front of her. It glowed orange in the firelight._

_"I hear you are a tattooist," she said. "I would like to purchase your skills, if I may."_

_He gulped, and replied. "You are welcome to. Tell me what you would like."_

_It seemed no time at all before she was sitting in front of him, his hands on her bare back. Her skin was smooth, but the muscles beneath spoke of power beyond his reckoning. It seemed a sin to mar her flesh, and his hands trembled as they had not done for many years. But he began his work, dipping the needle into her flesh over and over again, for her eyes had brooked no argument. They were the eyes of a tattooist like himself; the eyes of a person who made permanent marks, be they good or bad, and did not look back. _

_Ink and blood covered his hands and her back, and when he was done, the tattooist wiped her clean and bandaged the area. And then, perhaps because of weariness, and perhaps because of his own desire, which had pulled him to her since she had danced in front of him, he leaned his head against her shoulder, kissing it._

_The woman turned, his lips inadvertently sliding around her shoulder and up her neck with her movements. Startled, the tattooist began to pull away, but the woman held his face with her hand, and guided his lips to hers. With a groan, they came together, stumbling into his wagon. They mingled lips, limbs, ink, blood, souls._

_In the morning, she was gone, leaving only payment for the tattoo, a gold ring, and a note. _Wait for me?_ It read._

_He did. He waited until the leaves turned red, and then dead, and when he heard boot steps crunching in the first frost, he knew it was her. The dog ran to him, licking his hand. The woman followed her companion, hips swaying the same way they had before, eyes still blue and steadfast. But she was changed. Her gypsy clothes were replaced with those of an adventurer, of a Hero. Loose white shirt, dark pants that hugged her lines, blue boots and hat and overcoat. She seemed just a little more run down, as though a darkness had stolen a piece of her. The tattooist came forward, and they embraced._

_They lived happily ever after, moving to prosperous Bowerstone Old Town, buying a big house, and creating a beautiful daughter together. The woman continued on her adventures, flitting in and out of the twilight. And the tattooist waited. He always waited. _

_Every night he waited for her return, leaving the door unlocked for her. Tonight will be no different. Soon he will stand, and light a candle in the window, keeping vigil even when he is not awake. And then he will go to bed, his hand on the empty place beside him, listening to the dream-sighs of his daughter, and dreaming himself of the day when the door will open._

* * *

**Final Author's Note:** Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Came to me in a fit of inspiration (not a flash, because some of my ideas are more akin to seizures in the way they grip me out of nowhere). I can make no promises as to when I'll update, so this might be the last chapter for a long while. Have fun with Fable 2, everyone! _Your story is waiting._


	5. Caves and Cages

**Author's Note:** Oh, here's a nice long chapter for you, folks!

I don't know about the rest of you, but this particular side quest in the game was what really cemented the in-game involvement, the love, that I felt. I was genuinely and truly terrified, as a parent, worried for my child. And I don't even have kids.

* * *

Bloody claws rapped against the bars, waking Molly. She started and tried to lift her head, but nearly fell unconsciousness again from the sudden movement. All she could see was the blur of the iron bars around her, and the blurred outline of feet beyond them. Garbled screeches and growls echoed around her. Molly covered her nose to block the scents that assaulted her--rotten meat, unwashed bodies, urine. Her head cleared, and her vision solidified into a nightmare. She was in a cave, surrounded by Hobbes.

They leered at her through the bars. One stood closer than the others, wearing the remains of a top hat and greatcoat. Its mouth stretched open, revealing fangs stained yellow, and it rapped its claws on the bars again.

All Molly had wanted was an adventure, like Mum. When she had heard one of the Gamemasters talking about Hobbe attacks in Rookridge, her plan had seemed so clear and flawless. She would take one of her mother's guns, and follow the road out of Bowerstone Old Town until she reached the Rookridge Inn. Once she got that far, the innkeeper would likely know where to send her.

Her father was asleep, and the door was, as usual, unlocked. She tucked the pistol into the sash of her dress, the weight that was becoming familiar settling against her hip. No one paid her much notice as she left town; children were always underfoot in Bowerstone. Several merchants had given her the eye, though, once she arrived at Rookridge Road.

"Live close by, eh?" One had asked.

Molly smiled, letting the lies roll off of her tongue. "I'm meeting my mum just up the road."

The merchant had looked up to the nearby cliff, frowning. "Good thing Sparra' was just through here, then. No bandits nearby. Good luck."

Her mother had mentioned that she would be traveling to Oakfield. Something about looking for a new house. Still, it meant that her mother might have already taken care of the Hobbes, and what would she do then?

It was very late when she reached the bridge, and no merchants were in sight. They had taken to their respective shelters for the evening, leaving Molly alone on the road. She pulled out her pistol, squinting ahead through the darkness for any sign of the inn.

There was a rustling in the bushes nearby, a gargling cackle, and a pain that exploded in the back of her head. Before she could fire a shot, Molly fell to the ground.

And now she was here. The Hobbes all seemed so much bigger than her, though her mother had often spoken of them as "puny, pestilent, disgusting little buggers". But then, her mother was a very tall person. Even when she sat down to tell Molly a story she had towered over the girl. Her stories about Hobbes had always seemed darker than the rest, though Molly could not put her finger on why this was so.

"Hobbes," her mum had said, "are tricksy things. You don't want to walk into one o' their nests, that's for certain. They set traps, they plan, they wait. And they are some of the most evil creatures there are. They take children, and make them one o' their own, 'til the poor thing will eat its own father, if it has the chance."

Scarlet had looked far away when she said this, thinking of another story, one she would not tell Molly "until you're older". Then she had looked down at her daughter, and hugged her close, before she continued.

"When you see a Hobbe, darlin', you could do three things. One, which is what I recommend you doing, is running for your life. They don't run well. Second is overpowering them. Even a Hobbe with a bit o' Will power turns coward the minute he's hit. Lastly, you can outsmart them. They're only smart up to a point, Molly. Keep your wits about you, and you can get out of almost anything."

A light flashed at the far end of the cave, snapping Molly out of her memories. Through a gap in the Hobbes clustered around her, she could just see one of the creatures, bigger than the others, waving a glowing staff and gabbling something high-pitched. Molly shrank away from the light of the staff, instinctively reaching for her pistol. The weapon was not there. She was locked in a cage, prisoner of bloodthirsty Hobbes who, she feared, had begun the process to turn her into one of their own. And she had no gun.

_Mummy_, she thought, curling into a ball. _Help._

#

"We have a new Crucible Champion! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...Sparrow!"

The troll sank into the earth with a final groan, leaving behind a half-buried Crucible trophy and several glittering gems. Scarlet Connelly wiped the sweat off of her brow, catching the blood from a gash on her forehead as well, her hand red and salty.

She wondered, briefly, _why_ she had wanted to do this again. It was both tedious and terrifying, fighting in the crucible, and the reward really didn't justify the amount she had spent on weapons and potions in preparation. It also meant more time away from her family, which was scarce enough. Every day brought another messenger, with requests for a bounty hunt, a slave rescue, a bartender, woodcutter, or blacksmith. Someone from Bloodstone had had the gall to send her an invitation to the Assassination Society, though she had send him packing soon enough.

And here now was yet another messenger, running up the steps of the Crucible just as she left its doors. The poor boy, panting, held out a scroll of paper with a blue seal. It was her own seal.

Scarlet felt time slow without the aid of a spell. She turned to the messenger boy, who had bent double, struggling to get his breath back. "From my husband?" She asked. Perhaps not. Perhaps someone was playing a joke, or had duplicated her seal to get her attention. Brief flashes of memory tugged, of empty houses and bloodstained floors, and a wish that saved two and killed many. She shook the memories away, opened the scroll.

The boy gasped, "Sent me...urgent. Came by coach. Hobbes...took your girl. In Rookridge."

He looked up, holding his hand out for payment, and saw that the Hero had gone. A bag of gold clattered on the step before him, landing next to a broken piece of blue wax.

#

The Hobbes were growing impatient. They poked their fingers through the bars, their claws just catching at her dress before Molly scratched their hands. Then they would draw back, squealing, shooting dirty looks at the child. Molly, for her part, glared back with a stone-faced intensity, trying to imitate her mother.

Molly could see the big Hobbe still working, the light from the staff growing by the minute. She could tell now that it was a summoning; the magic felt like her mother's had when she summoned the undead. But what was the Hobbe calling? Its Will was very weak, or it would have collected sufficient strength long ago.

_How much longer do I have? Minutes? Hours? Mum, what should I do?_

_Outsmart them._

_But how?_

The cave floor was littered with chunks of rock. A bit of it had collected in the sand at the floor of her cage, with just a few pieces small enough to fit through the bars. Molly picked one up, hefted it; they were heavier than they looked. Could she throw it? Through the narrow bars of the cage, past the crowd of Hobbes, and hit the Will user?

There was nothing else to try. It had to work.

She heaved up one of the bigger ones, settling it on her shoulder for a moment as she eyed her target. The spell seemed to be nearly finished, now. She would have to hurry.

The first throw made it between the bars, but landed only a few feet from the cage, braining one of the smaller Hobbes. Molly picked a lighter stone, and tried again.

This throw went wild, ricocheting off the cave walls and hitting yet another Hobbe. The monsters began to back away from the cage. When Molly picked up a third stone, they all ducked.

_Focus your power,_ her mother had told her. _See your target, but kill with your mind. Focus. Bring all your strength, your energy, inward. Compact it, prepare it, and when you feel each part of you ready, sure of its job, release it. Unlock your power._

The stone flew from her hand in a blaze of blue light, her eyes shining with it, her skin glowing in currents of it. The big Hobbe stumbled, the stone, striking the side of its head. The monster did not fall, but its staff did, shattering on the ground, the spell incomplete.

Molly sank to the bottom of the cage, the Will lines fading to nothing, her eyes returning to the normal dark blue she had inherited from her mother.

Gargling and screeching, the wounded Hobbe advanced on her, the other Hobbes parting for it. The intent to kill was clear, but Molly did not have the strength to fight, or to run. She was going to die.

The Hobbe was reaching for the cage door when there was the distant echo of gunfire. A Hobbe's dying cry sounded out immediately after.

It had been many years ago when the Hero had first come to this cave. But some of the horde had seen the last massacre, and lived to tell of the nightmare in blue. The loud fire and ghosts, the swords and lighting, the demon that haunted their darkness, was a story passed to all Hobbes.

And now, she was back. And she was angry.

There was immediate panic. Several Hobbes scrambled for the exit, and realized too late that it led straight to the battleground. Those that remained began scrabbling for weapons, gibbering and crying. Molly watched them, and a slow smile began to grow.

"Mummy!"

The doorway exploded with Hobbe bodies, blown back by ghosts and gunfire. Scarlet charged forward, blasting the head off one Hobbe and whipping her cutlass around to slice through another. Blood flew. Hobbes screamed. Scarlet roared.

When the creatures lay dead, and Scarlet had found the key among bodies, she opened the door of her daughter's cage. She looked down at her child, glaring, one eyebrow raised just slightly.

Molly could not quite look at her mother. The rage of battle still hung heavily over her, like a second coat. A deep cut on Scarlet's forehead seemed like another frown, an open wound of anger. When Molly spoke, it was in the quiet voice of fear and guilt.

"Mum...I'm sorry. I just wanted to be an adventurer like you."

Her mother remained unmoved. Tears began fighting at the backs of Molly's eyes, stinging. She scrubbed her fist across her face, trying to wipe them away.

"I was so scared, Mum."

She was enveloped in a crushing hug. Her mother clutched her tight, her hands patting her all over, checking for any hurt. "Molly," Scarlet whispered, "I thought I'd lost you again."

"Mummy!" Molly sobbed against her shoulder.

Scarlet rubbed her back, her hand moving in small circles. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

"I won't Mum! I promise!"

"Good." Scarlet set her daughter down, and took her hand. "Now let's get out of here. Your father's waiting."

#

Liam Connelly paced outside the Rookridge carriage house, glaring at any passerby and starting at any noise. When he heard the creak of a trapdoor, he rushed inside the barn.

Molly emerged first, running into her father's arms. Scarlet came up more slowly, favoring one of her arms. Liam could see blood staining her sleeve.

"I'm going to have to do something about this door," Scarlet grumbled. "The Hobbes must use it constantly."

"You're bleeding," Liam said.

His wife stared at him for a moment, then glanced down at her arm. "Oh. This is my favorite coat, too."

"Let's get you patched up," he said, reaching for her hand.

Scarlet looked at his hand, and at Molly, and then to the wet and misty road. A distant cry pierced the air, and a merchant ran past the carriage house, his eyes frenzied. The Hero smiled, resigned.

"You go ahead. Take the carriage. I'll see you soon."

And father and daughter watched her disappear into the dark, the dog Thorn running to meet her.

* * *

**Final Author's Note: **It occurs to me that I constantly leave out the dog in these shorts. Usually I realize at the end and add in a bit here or there, but I always feel guilty about it. But it's just such an unobtrusive little guy, you know?


	6. Lament

_Who sees the fall of a Sparrow?_

* * *

Heroes do not die easily. But they can die. When their Will gives out, when their body can no longer recover, when they have aged to the point that they desire death...only then do they leave this world for good.

The Sparrow queen had aged. Thirty years had passed since the end of her adventures and her coronation as Queen of Albion. She would have been advanced in years as it was, but her sacrifice on Reaver's behalf and the death of her first family had taken whatever extra years she may have had.

_Not much longer now,_ she thought. Another breath was dragged through her once-powerful frame, and she tried to sit up in bed only to fall back amongst the pillows.

"Jasper..." She murmured.

Hands raised her up, adjusted the pillows, laid her against them again. "I am here, madam," the young butler murmured.

But was he young, really? By her standards, perhaps. He could only have been in his fourth decade. Yet he certainly had a few years over the soldier on her right.

She focused her attention on the butler, grasping his hand. "I am leaving my children without a mother," she said. "Please, I ask you to attend to their needs. Care for them as I would, Jasper."

He kept his face solemn as he said to her, "Of course, madam. Anything you ask." But as their hands parted and he turned away, the façade dropped and laid bare his grief.

The queen's bedside table held innumerable bottles and jars to ease the pain of her final days. From his seat beside her, Walter Beck glared at the philters with suspicion and distrust. How much longer might his queen have if not for every doctor in the kingdom shoving some potion down her throat? After drinking so many as an adventuring Hero, the queen was now immune to their positive effects and was left only with a witch's brew of chemicals in her body.

Her voice stirred him from his reverie. "Majesty?"

"I asked if Reaver had arrived, Walter."

"Yes, Majesty. Only moments ago."

"Then send the bastard in. And, Walter? I've asked you before to call me Sparrow." She gave him a rare smile. It had been months since he had seen it last.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The man that swaggered through the door a moment later positively reeked of depravity. But when he caught sight of the woman lying on the bed, something in him stilled and dropped away. Fear flickered in his eyes, though he did not see the glares of Walter and Jasper.

"Hello, Reaver." The queen's voice, soft and weak, seemed to snap him out of his mood. He was all smirk and smolder again, taking Walter's seat at the bedside.

"My old comrade-in-arms!" He crowed. "You don't appear to have aged _gracefully_, do you? Such a shame. I remember when you had a most ravishing figure."

Walter moved to strangle the filthy rat, but before he took a step Reaver had whipped a pistol out of nowhere and pointed it at his forehead.

"Afraid not, my lad. It simply wouldn't do to assault a guest in the palace."

"_Reaver_."

For a moment Sparrow's voice took on the diamond edge that had terrified hobbes and nobles alike. Her eyes, still a deep blue, narrowed. The pistol vanished.

"Walter, Jasper, could you give us a moment?" She asked, quiet again. They left, reluctantly.

As soon as the door had shut, Reaver chuckled. "Still quite the formidable warrior, aren't we? How did you let age get the better of you?"

"The potions of Knothole Island are very effective," she replied. "They allowed me to look youthful for a time. Why did you think I still looked like a young woman that night?"

"I will admit, I had wondered." Reaver leaned forward, his chin on his fist, elbow on knee. "You were ravishing."

"I was drunk."

"Yet the outcome was still in your favor, wasn't it?" One of his eyebrows raised, his voice turning bitter. "You needed an heir, and sure enough...how is he, by the way?"

The queen smiled. "Ah, Reaver. How good of you to arrive at my point so early. I did call you here for a specific purpose." She took his hand and gripped it like a vice. "Let me make this perfectly clear," Sparrow said. "You will leave my children alone. Especially Logan. I don't want your influence anywhere near them. Do you understand?"

And then she called him a name. It was centuries old and had long lain buried in the shadows of a dead village, but she had found it. When it passed her lips, Reaver paled and the fear was now plain on his face.

"Yes." He whispered. "They will have no interference from me."

"Good." She let him go. Only when his hand was on the doorknob did she ask, "Do you even know my daughter's name?"

His voice was more solemn than she had ever heard it, and she did not see his face when he replied, "Ah, yes. Lark. How very droll. And who did you use to be _her_ sire?"

"You will never know. Now leave."

Reaver left the castle and went immediately to Bloodstone. He needed wine, prostitutes, and death. Seeing the age take her as it had not taken him, feeling the extent of her power, even now...and that name. His weaker side stirred again, and he needed to kill it. Now.

#

It was a little more than a week later at sunset when the queen told Jasper to fetch her children. It was time.

As soon as he had gone and Walter and Sparrow were alone in the room, she said, "I need a promise."

He looked at her. She fought for every breath. "Yes."

"Don't you want...to know the terms?"

"Only if you insist, Your Majesty."

"I do. Logan...is a young man. Grown. But Lark...she is only four. Too young to be without...a parent. Walter. Look after her. Train her. And when she is...old enough, take her...to the mausoleum. She will be a...a Hero."

He couldn't. Balls, he was only a soldier! He couldn't do this.

"Majesty-"

"Walter. _Please_."

The last wish of a dying woman. Of his queen. Walter knelt beside her. "All right. I will do it. I swear to teach her, and watch over her. And when she is old enough, I will set her on the path of a Hero. This I swear to you, Sparrow."

It was then that Logan burst in, leading his baby sister by the hand. "Mother," he whispered, coming to kneel on the opposite side of the bed. "Oh, Mother..."

"Hush, now." She stroked his dark hair. "We knew this was coming. You must be strong."

His face was buried in the bedspread and his frame still shook, but the crown prince was silent.

"Logan."

He looked up and his eyes, red-rimmed, met her own.

"You must be Albion's King. Protect the people. Protect the land. And watch over your little sister. Let none of them come to harm."

"Yes, Mother."

She smiled for him. "Now, where is my Lark?"

The child peeped over the edge of the bed, and Logan lifted her up so that she lay next to her mother. She snuggled in, small arms embracing what she could of her mother's thin frame.

"Lark, darling. Listen to me." Sparrow cupped the child's face in her hands. "You must be good for me. Help other people, and be kind to them. And be brave, my darling. You are a light in dark places."

The little princess nodded, and her mother kissed her one last time.

Heroes do not die easily. But they can die. As the sun set that day in Albion, Sparrow faced death for the third time...and let herself go.


End file.
